Before and After the Curious Appearance of Barnabus Lansky Installment #4

 August 28, 1959 4:20 p.m.
    “It’s a beautiful day here at the Mikkleson’s race course and we’re expecting some heavy competition.” Freddie Mikkleson bellowed in his best announcer voice as he biked in circles on the driveway. “The bikers have lined up and- BAM! -they’re off! Mikkelson is in the lead, no surprise there. He’s had a wonderful season. There he goes and-” Freddie wasn’t watching his turns. “-Ka-Boom! I can’t believe it! Somebody put a bomb on the track. Must have been a Russian. Mikkleson is down and let’s hope that he came out of that explosion in fewer pieces than his bike.” Freddie had fallen over into the grass. He picked up a kite left from last night and ran to the back yard. “Well, folks, I’ve just been informed that anyone bombed on a bike race may use a helicopter to complete the race.” Freddie held the kite high above his head and spun in circles until his face turned red. “He passes over the Mississippi and zooms past a forrest Umph!” Freddie tripped over an untied shoelace. “Oh, no! The fuel tank had a leak! Leaving the wreckage of his helicopter behind, Mikkleson now wanders, in search of the bike trail. This fearless biker is not intimidated. Always prepared, he fires a flare gun.” Freddie raised a finger gun and pulled the trigger. “This biker is brilliant! Can nothing stop him? I see a jet landing and Mikkleson boards it.” Freddie spread out his arms and sprinted toward the patio- the finish line. “Amazing! Despite a bombing, a helicopter wreck, and no bike, Mikkleson has come in first place in this bike race.” Freddie collapsed contentedly on the lawn, completely unaware of his father scowling at him.
    “A bike race?” Mr. Mikkleson muttered though his cigarette. “The kid’s crazy. A bike race? How’s he gonna provide for a family riding a bike? Every day it’s somethin’ new. A biker, an archeologist. Where does he get all these ideas? And those explosions- humph!  As if we weren’t all paranoid enough. That kid. That crazy kid...”
    “That crazy kid is your son.” Mrs. Mikkleson wrapped her arms around her husband, but she looked with equal concern at Freddie. “He’ll grow out of it. Can you mow the lawn tomorrow?”
    Mr. Mikkleson didn’t take his eyes off his son. “Sure. I think I’ll teach Fred to mow.”
    “Sweetheart, he’s only nine years old.”
    “That old already, huh?” He smashed the cigarette against the side of the house. “Well, then it’s about time he learned something practical.”